Love Isn't Blind, Just Near-Sighted
by Karalora
Summary: "All's fair in love and war." Well, not so much anymore. There are rules now...but maybe rules were made to be broken.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: When I wrote my first historical SatW fanfic, "Locks" (which you should totally read if you haven't already), I was dissatisfied with my inability to pin down a specific timeframe for the events. So for this one, I resolved to do some research and set it in a period when Denmark and Sweden were at war with each other. Ha ha. "When Denmark and Sweden were at war with each other" turned out to be about as specific as "when dinosaurs ruled the Earth." There were a few centuries there where they were pretty much constantly at war with each other, often for no better reason than that one or the other had a new king who needed establish some cred. So yeah—this could have happened almost anytime. Let's just call it A.D. Umpteen-Umpty-Ump._

_Also, in case anyone is wondering, yes, Sweden is left-handed. If you don't believe me, go through the comic and note how often he uses his left hand vs. his right, and to perform which tasks. He even parts his hair like a lefty._

* * *

Sweden ran, if his limping gait could properly be called running. He despised doing it, but people and nations will choose all sorts of things over dying. Well, maybe that was too dramatic. Denmark probably wouldn't kill him. A dead foe couldn't suffer or be humiliated. You couldn't hold your victory over their head and gloat. He himself would never kill Denmark for just that reason.

The end result was the same. Frantic, half-blind and clutching his wounded left arm, Sweden ran through the cluttered alleys. Somewhere there had to be a decent hiding place where he could pull himself together and wait for backup…

And when it arrived, he was going to turn the tables on his cocky rival and give back at least twice what he had gotten. He would have to be creative with regard to the broken glasses since Denmark didn't wear them, but Sweden trusted in his own ability to improvise.

He had to admire the other nation's strategy. First had come the surprise headbutt, which had probably been intended to break Sweden's nose but had been slightly misaimed and landed on his glasses instead. One lens had popped out of the frame and been lost to the mud, and the other had gained a large star-shaped crack which rendered it worse than useless. Then, while Sweden was reeling from the shock of the blow and the disorientation of losing his clear sight, Denmark had drawn his rapier and skewered his upper left arm, causing him to drop his own sword from a suddenly nerveless hand. In desperation Sweden had kicked, landing a lucky blow that knocked Denmark's legs out from under him, and then fled.

He knew his head start wouldn't last long. The feeling in his arm had returned as a wave of red-hot pain, accompanied by a rush of blood. He had to find safety before shock set in.

Where the _hell_ was Finland?

He heard Denmark's rapid footsteps behind him, catching up. He had only seconds to get behind cover before his enemy came within line-of-sight. Sweden dove for the nearest blur that looked large enough to hide him. He was fortunate—it was a pile of broken crates, too far gone to be repaired but not yet taken to bits for firewood. He drew himself into a tiny huddle, forcing his breathing to calm and willing his pulse to slow. It would do him no good to be invisible if Denmark could hear him panting, and each thumping heartbeat sent a fresh throb through his arm.

Before long, he heard his pursuer approach. "Oh, Sweeeeeedeeeennnnnn…I know you're around here somewhere! You couldn't have gotten _that_ far ahead." There were creaks and thumps as Denmark began methodically prodding the various rubbish heaps in the alley. He was still some distance away, however. Sweden gingerly peeled his hand away from his arm, wincing. The bleeding had slowed quite a bit, but it still needed seeing to. He removed his ruined glasses in silence and slid them into his pocket, then carefully felt around his feet.

"Why drag this out?" Denmark continued, nudging apart another potential refuge. He was getting closer. "We both know how it's going to end. It could end a lot more gently if you'd just surrender. Let me put it this way: If I have to ferret you out, then when this is all over I'm going to strip you naked and parade you through the streets with your hands tied behind your back, a pile of rotten fish guts on your head, and…oh…clothespins on your nipples. Yes, that sounds fitting. But if you offer me an honest surrender…maybe I'll let you wear some underwear."

He always had been good at the insulting sort of intimidation.

Sweden's hand closed on a broken bit of planking. The splintery wood dug into his fingers, but he didn't mind. It was going to do a lot worse to Denmark's face. He would have to swing with his off hand in order to avoid straining his wound, and he hoped his aim would be good enough for a simple clubbing maneuver.

Suddenly, he heard new footsteps enter the alley at a dead run. "Who the hell are you?" Denmark demanded. There were sounds of a scuffle, a smack, and a thump, then near-silence. Sweden didn't dare move until he knew who had won.

"Sweden? Sir? Are you here?"

He didn't recognize the voice, but it held an accent similar to his own. Apart from that, all he heard was some groaning from Denmark. He decided to take a chance, and cautiously peered out from behind the crates. It didn't do him much good without his glasses. He could make out Denmark, sprawled on the ground and attempting to crawl away from the newcomer: a tall, slim man with dull brownish hair, who was pointing a sword at the retreating enemy with one hand while stowing a second blade in his belt with the other. Beyond that he could discern almost nothing.

The other spotted him and strode over quickly, reaching down to help Sweden stand. "Hurry, sir. He won't stay down long."

"What did you do to him?" said Sweden, accepting the aid. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, but recognition demanded better eyesight at the least.

"I hit him. Come on—there's a secure place nearby."

"Is that my sword?"

"Yes. Denmark had it. I took it back, along with his."

"Very good, thank you." Sweden held out his hand expectantly.

"No, sir. You're wounded. Let me worry about defense."

Impressed with his rescuer's brisk efficiency, Sweden allowed himself to be led by the hand to a building several streets over. No one challenged the two of them on the way, and the soldier barred the door and listened at it for a moment to make sure they hadn't been followed. Then he held out his hand to Sweden.

"Take these, sir. I won't need them for close work."

Sweden accepted the offering, finding it to be a pair of glasses. He put them on gratefully—they weren't as strong as his own, but some correction was better than none. It allowed him a better look at the other's face, anyway.

"I recognize you now," he said. "You're Finland's cousin—Åland, isn't it?"

"Well done, sir," said Åland, undoing his sword belt and hanging it on a chair. "Identifying one of your own territories by name in less than ten minutes."

Sweden took pause. That had to be sarcasm…didn't it? Yet the deadpan delivery was flawless. He decided to let it slide.

Now Åland was laying out bandages on a table. "Finland thought you might need help. He's dealing with Norway himself, so he sent me. Come here, sir, and I'll see to that arm."

"He knows he's not to do Norway any serious harm, doesn't he?" said Sweden, taking the chair and carefully rolling up his sleeve. The wound was messy, and it stung as the fabric was pulled away from it.

"I would assume so," said Åland, uncorking a bottle of gin to wash the cut. "Your instructions on the matter were pretty clear. But if I may venture an opinion…"

"Yes, go on," said Sweden.

"I would not be so lenient in your place, sir. Even if you win this one, Norway will be emboldened to rebel if he knows you'll go easy on him."

Sweden carefully blanked his expression, apart from the little grimaces he couldn't help making as Åland cleaned his wound with the biting liquor. "I'm not worried. Norway and I go way back. We…understand each other. He won't make trouble under my rule."

He half-expected Åland to continue his polite protest, but the other nodded. "I'll take your word for it, sir. Try not to move your arm; I've almost finished."

"How does it look?"

"Not as bad as it seemed at first. It should heal up quickly. Just don't make any sudden movements with it for a few days." Åland gave the cut one final wipedown with a clean dry cloth, smeared a greasy ointment over the site to seal it, and wrapped it with linen.

Sweden carefully flexed his arm, testing it. It ached, but it was far from the worst he had ever suffered. Åland knew what he was doing as a field medic, at least. "Thank you," he said absently. "I suppose you'll need your glasses back."

"Not right away," said Åland, gathering up the medical supplies. "By all means, use them until we get back to headquarters."

"Can you fight without them?"

"Well enough. Stabbing an enemy isn't exactly a precise science."

There was that dry, deadpan wit again. It occurred to Sweden that Åland would be a good man to have around on general principles—intelligent, skilled, and just ruthless enough where Denmark was concerned. His gloriously subtle sense of humor was a bonus.

"Well done," he murmured. "Åland…I may have an opening for an aide-de-camp. Would you be interested?"

Åland dropped the bandage roll. He scrambled after it, suddenly awkward. Sweden squinted through the borrowed glasses—he couldn't be certain with his bad eyesight and the low lighting, but he could swear the other man was _blushing_. There was no accounting for some people.

"Er…is that a yes or a no? Do you need time to think about it?"

Åland retrieved the errant linen. "I-I would be honored, sir. You just caught me off guard."

"Oh? Maybe I should retract the offer, then." Åland stood stock-still, blinking, his expression conflicted. "That was a joke. You can begin immediately."

"Sir, yes, sir!" Åland said, drawing himself up to his full height with conspicuous pride. "Awaiting your orders, sir!"

"Get us out of here and back to headquarters safely," said Sweden. "Then get word to Finland to withdraw for the time being. I'm calling a strategy meeting. It's time the Dane Devil got what's coming to him…"

To Be Continued...


	2. Chapter 2

The trouble, Sweden had determined, wasn't figuring out how to defeat Denmark. He had the home field advantage in this case, and once his wound had knitted up a bit, he was relatively certain he was the superior fencer. The trouble was figuring out what to _do_ with his victory. All he really wanted was to push his southern neighbor back over the border and make him stay there for a while…but merely beating him in a straight-up fight wouldn't do it. He needed to make Denmark _feel_ the loss, follow up in a way that would take the fight out of him for the foreseeable future.

So far, the strategy meeting was more of a brainstorming session, with Åland taking notes in order to spare Sweden's arm. The list of wild ideas mainly followed the theme of creative humiliation. It was rather discouraging to Sweden, who was almost positive that Denmark was impossible to humiliate. To take a completely random scenario, if Sweden were to strip Denmark naked and march him through the city with his hands tied behind his back, a pile of rotten fish guts on his head, and clothespins on his nipples...the little bastard would probably _enjoy_ it. Sweden could just see him deliberately catching the eye of any pretty young ladies along the parade route and twitching his pecs so that—_ugh, ugh, oh god, ugh, the image wouldn't stop—_the clothespins would bounce.

He was rescued from his own treacherous imagination by a loud rapping sound. Finland was hammering on the table with the handle of his knife, and Sweden suddenly became aware that the other two had been trying to get his attention.

"Sorry..." he mumbled. "Where were we?"

"We were just wondering," said Åland, "what about Norway?"

"What about him?"

"We've been assuming you'll get him as a victory concession, but what if we just cut to the chase and take him hostage? He and Denmark are pretty close, right? If we threaten him, Denmark should fall into line."

Sweden frowned. "You already know I don't want to hurt Norway. And Denmark knows it too. He'll call the bluff."

"Maybe if you did it personally. But what if Finland and I do it? Would it be enough to make him doubt?"

Sweden considered. "Maybe...but it still might not have the effect we want. Denmark is annoyingly unpredictable that way. He _might_ back down if he thinks Norway's in danger...or he might fly off the handle."

"I take it we don't want that?" said Åland.

Finland shuddered and took a pull from his omnipresent liquor bottle. Sweden guessed he was suppressing one of many memories of Denmark, centuries past, so taken with battle-madness that he had forgotten how to feel pain. There's nothing quite like the sight of a half-naked, axe-bearing warrior with three or four arrows sticking out of his shoulders charging at you at top speed and _grinning_...

Come to think of it, Denmark's imperviousness to embarrassment was just the modern incarnation of his berserker tendencies.

"How are we supposed to beat someone like that?" Sweden muttered.

"Well, there's always the classic," Åland said as if following Sweden's train of thought. "We catch him. We chop off one of his fingers. We turn him loose with the promise to chop off something else if he ever crosses the border again."

"No," Sweden said automatically.

"Why not?"

"Because...we just can't. It's not civilized."

"Neither is Denmark."

"You want to sink to his level? There are _rules_ of warfare between sovereign nations nowadays."

"Does _he_ follow them?"

"_Yes_, actually."

"So let me get this straight...his mind is invulnerable, it's too risky to strike at his heart, and mangling his body is...not done? So what are we supposed to do?"

Sweden massaged his temples with his good hand. "Let's adjourn for now, think things over, and reconvene some other time. Maybe I should write to my sister in the meantime and ask her for ideas."

Åland started. "Your _sister_?"

"She knows a lot about what you might call civilized pain infliction," Sweden explained.

"So why haven't we consulted her already?"

"It's complicated. She kind of has a...thing, with Denmark. Off and on. I don't like making her choose sides. It just causes fights at home."

"I see," said Åland, fiddling with his notes and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

It was a good thing the meeting was being closed.

* * *

"_Ow!_" Denmark yelped. "Well?"

"Nothing seems broken," said Norway. "You have a hell of a bruise, though."

"I could have told you that," said Denmark. "Jesus Christ, that guy had a punch on him like a kicking horse."

"Who did you say did this?"

"Some lackey of Sweden's. Looks like one of Finland's clan, but I don't remember seeing him before."

"A newly established territory, you think?"

"He can't be all that new, to fight like that. I'm not really that surprised. God alone knows what sorts of creepy uncles and what-not Finland has hiding in those forests of his."

"I don't like the sound of that," said Norway. "Maybe we should call off the invasion for now. We can pick it up again after we send word to Iceland and some of the other islands to join in."

Denmark shifted position and scowled as his bruised ribs twinged. "Why? When has a numerical disadvantage ever stopped us before?"

"When has your first encounter with a newcomer ever resulted in you going down with one hit before?" Norway pointed out.

Denmark made a dismissive flapping gesture with one hand...and winced again as the motion took its toll on his pummeled torso. "See?" Norway said, rather unhelpfully. "Frankly, I'm surprised you got away."

"That's just it," said Denmark with a sly grin. "He _let_ me get away. He could have hit me again, or tied me up, but he didn't. Do you know why?"

"Of course not. Do you?"

"He's sweet on Sweden."

Norway choked on his own breath in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Am I ever wrong about these things? He hit me just hard enough to put me down and then made sure to get _the Swede_ safely away. And there were other tells too."

Denmark paused with a self-satisfied smirk, until Norway prompted him to continue.

"He wore glasses, but they didn't look very thick. He could probably have managed well enough without them. Why risk something so expensive in battle if he didn't need them to fight? There were a lot of little things...I can't put words to them all. But I definitely got the impression he was emulating Sweden's style."

"You saw all that in just a few seconds?"

"What can I say? I'm good with people."

"Okay, so the new guy's in the fight because he has a thing for Sweden. What good does that do us?"

"It's very simple, Norway. Sweden has come to depend on cold, rational, emotionless calculation to win his wars. If he has to rely on someone whose motivations for fighting are based on passion, it will throw off all his usual strategies. And he's not as adaptable as he used to be."

"Ah!" said Norway, understanding. "So what's our next move?"

"_Your_ next move," Denmark said, "is to find out what you can about this guy. Who is he, exactly? What are his strengths, his weaknesses? Beyond that...I'm not sure yet. I won't be able to do much of anything for a day or two. A lot can happen in that time. On the bright side, Sweden's in the same boat."

"So watch and wait?"

"Exactly. And if we get bored, we can wander around and break windows."

"Skål!"

* * *

Several days passed, as days tend to do.

"Here's the briefing you asked for, sir," said Åland, setting down a slim bundle of papers on the table. "And today's requisitions, pre-sorted in descending order of urgency, and the damage report from the southeastern quarter, and your wheel-shaped crisp bread, and your coffee. One sugar, no milk, as requested."

"Thank you, Åland," said Sweden, digging into the paperwork. "Why don't you take a break? You've barely sat down since you woke up this morning."

"Just putting in my best effort for you, sir."

"Well, feel free to ease up. I get tired just watching you."

"Sorry, sir. I'll try not to rush so visibly." He left Sweden's tent.

"Good grief," Sweden said to himself with a chuckle before turning his attention back to his work.

Åland posted himself just outside the tent entrance. When Finland approached a moment later, having just finished a perimeter check of the encampment, he squared his shoulders and said "The general is occupied at the moment. State your business."

Finland narrowed his eyes and tried to pass anyway. Åland planted a hand against his chest, stopping him in his tracks. He leaned in close.

"_State_," he said, "your _business_."

Finland continued glaring for a few more seconds, before suddenly ducking and twisting, getting his shoulder under his cousin's outstretched arm so that he could heave it aside and force his way into the tent...but Åland knew him too well. He matched the move, grabbed Finland's arm, and spun him around in preparation to shove him away...but Finland also knew _him_ well, and as he was falling he hooked a foot around Åland's ankle to take him along. They landed in a dusty heap.

"What is your problem?" Åland growled. "I'm just trying to do my job here!"

There was the sound of a throat clearing from the tent entrance. "If your objective is to keep me from being disturbed," Sweden said wryly, "your technique could use a little work. What is it, Finland? Nothing amiss, I hope?"

Finland offered a salute and a thumbs-up from his awkward position.

"Well done. Carry on."

Åland leaped to his feet and smartened up as best he could. His expression was devastated. "My sincerest apologies, sir! Things got a little out of hand, but I never meant to—"

"_Åland_," Sweden said firmly. "It's all right. I get it—he's family. Sometimes you have to wind each other up. Just mind how and when you do it. Speaking of which..."

He never finished his sentence, because at that moment a great, bugling animal call rang out from elsewhere in the camp.

"That sounds like Moosey," said Sweden. "He must smell an intruder!"

"What happened, Finland?" said Åland. "Miss a spot?"

"Not now," said Sweden. "Let's move before they do whatever they came to do!"

Nevertheless, Finland looked profoundly embarrassed as the three of them made for the moose pen. From there, they fanned out to look for clues, and he made up for his error when he spotted a trail of jumbo-sized footprints in the dirt. He signaled the others, and they followed the trail until they came to the edge of camp and saw a familiar figure dashing away among the trees.

"Norway!" Sweden shouted. "What the hell was he doing here?"

"I'll find out, sir!"Åland said, breaking into a run. In only a handful of seconds, he was lost to sight.

But oh, those few seconds...

Åland was not, in Sweden's estimation, much to look at. He was gangly, and although he put himself together a little more fastidiously than Finland, he couldn't do much about the blunt features and bristly hair that were the family's hallmarks. But he _moved_ amazingly—not gracefully, exactly, but with a masterful economy of motion, like a diving hawk.

If only he were quite as fast as one...

Several moments later, Åland returned, panting with exertion. "I'm sorry, sir. He got away," he said. "He's better at woods...I couldn't keep pace. Sir? Are you all right?"

It suddenly occurred to Sweden that he had let himself slump over to lean on a water barrel. From the outside, he must have seemed like he was possibly feeling unwell. Finland was looking at him as though he were turning into a frog. Just how far into that reverie had he let himself sink? "Fine!" he said a little too brightly, standing up straight. "Just fine. Why wouldn't I be? Never mind, Åland, you did your best. And Finland...I suppose I can't blame you either, for not noticing him on your patrol. Nobody skulks better than Norway. If not for Moosey, we'd never have known he was here at all." He looked down and scuffed one of Norway's footprints. "We'd better check for sabotage. He probably couldn't have done much in the time he was here, but better safe than sorry."

Finland nodded and scuttled off to search. "Anything in particular I should look for?" said Åland.

"Fish," said Sweden. "He likes to leave them someplace we won't notice them until the smell suddenly becomes too bad to live with. Don't laugh—it's cost me battles a few times."

"I wasn't going to laugh, sir."

"No...I suppose you weren't." Sweden gave Åland an appraising look.

"Um...sir?"

"What is it about you, Åland? You work harder than any other territory in my lands, but you brush it off like it's nothing."

"I'm just doing my duty, sir."

"A duty you were extremely eager to take on, as I recall."

"What are you getting at, sir?"

Sweden shook his head. "Nothing. Never mind. Get on with that search. And when you're done...I insist you take that break I suggested earlier."

Åland made a stiff little bow before hurrying off. Sweden watched again as he left.

He was definitely better-looking from behind.

_Good Lord...where did _that_ come from?_ Sweden wondered.

To Be Continued...


	3. Chapter 3

Norway staggered into Denmark's camp, with twigs in his hair. He stood to attention and waited for his commander to acknowledge him. Which he did, as soon as he had polished off his mug of beer.

"You look like you've been having fun. Did you learn anything interesting?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. The guard moose caught my scent."

"I told you not to bring the fish."

"I was going to plant it behind Sweden's tent if I got a chance."

Denmark tapped the beer barrel again and passed the mug to Norway, who gratefully accepted. "So what _did_ you find out?"

"The new guy is called Åland, and he's been made Sweden's aide-de-camp. He's smart, and he's fast—I think I only escaped because he's not experienced in woodcraft. We already know he's strong from the skirmish the other day. And you're right—he's head over heels for Sweden. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it's so _obvious_. And Sweden has no idea!"

"_Ha_," said Denmark, slapping the table. "Of course he doesn't. Sweden wouldn't know it if a...uh...Norway, what's something where it's really obvious if it likes you?"

"Uh...a dog?"

"Yes! Perfect! Sweden wouldn't recognize a _dog's_ affection. He's so uptight he doesn't know what _he's_ feeling half the time."

"Are you sure we can turn this to our advantage?" said Norway. "It seems pretty dicey. Think about: Sweden has a new aide-de-camp who's vicious, scarily competent, and completely devoted to him. I can't imagine how that could do _us_ any good."

"Sweden doesn't know the full extent of the last bit," said Denmark. "That's how."

"I don't follow."

"That's why I'm the strategist." He stroked his chin. "It works like this. Since Sweden doesn't know about Åland's crush, he won't be very sensitive to Åland's feelings. We trick him into stomping on those feelings, Åland's heart is broken, the Finnish blood running _through_ that heart swears revenge on the one who hurt him...and then the vicious, scarily competent, devoted guy is working for _us_."

Norway was quiet for a moment. "You know what else is kinda scary? How quickly you came up with that plan."

"It is inspired, isn't it?"

"I have to be honest...I don't love it. It seems too underhanded. You know I prefer a good straightforward dust-up."

"Times have changed, Norway. The modern world frowns on the unsophisticated duster-uppers. But if it makes you feel any better, I'm not quite ready to move ahead with Operation: Lead Arrow just yet. I think I need to see them in action together first, to really get a feel for how they interact when the chips are down." He drew himself another mug of beer and drank half of it at a single pull. "Norway? Take a letter. We're inviting our friends to come and play!"

* * *

_Hey Sweden,_

_Norway and I will be redecorating the town square at noon tomorrow. Nothing fancy, just changing out the flags for better ones and maybe demolishing that useless floral clock so we can replace it with something more interesting, like an alehouse or a hog wallow. I just thought you should know in case you wanted to come by with any pointers. See you then. Or not, if you already have plans._

_Your old friend,_

_Denmark_

"This is his idea of formal war correspondence?" said Åland, passing the letter back.

"It says a lot about him, doesn't it?" said Sweden. "Tell Finland to start preparing."

"Surely we're not going, sir? It's obviously a trap."

"I know it's a trap. And Denmark knows I'm expecting a trap, and he probably knows I know he knows."

Åland blinked. "You may have lost me there, sir."

"My point is, there's nothing to be gained by trying to avoid the trap. That way lies infinite recursion. Our best bet is to go ahead and spring it just so we can see what it is and manage from there. I don't like having to go moment by moment like that, but sometimes he doesn't leave me any choice."

"He is such an unbelievable ass."

"Isn't he just? Well, we'll cook his goose. Trap or no, he's given us a time and a place on _my_ turf. It's been so long since I was the one to invade him that he's probably forgotten what kind of advantage that gives me."

"So what's the plan? Is there even a plan?"

"Of course there's a plan," said Sweden. "Step One: Show up fifteen minutes early, as recommended for appointments. Step Two:..." He narrowed his eyes and smiled wickedly. "Show no mercy." He caught himself. "No more mercy than is required by the civilized rules of engagement, that is."

* * *

Promptly at 11:45 the following morning, Sweden and his supporters arrived in the town square. There was no sign of Denmark _or_ Norway, aside from one solitary Danish flag draped over a third-story balcony on the northern side of the square. It fluttered slightly in the breeze, and grated on Sweden's soul.

They moved cautiously in the open, alert for any trace of the enemy. Finland's hawk eyes constantly scanned the rooftops and alleyways, but even he noticed nothing else amiss.

"Maybe the floral clock is fast," Åland muttered. "It is summer, after all."

"It can't be," said Sweden. "I paid Switzerland to help me plant it."

Finland nudged them both and pointed to the edge of the flower bed, where someone had left an uneven row of clay pots, and then apparently filled them partway with dark soil—sloppily, so that trails of it ran from one pot to the next.

"Looks like Denmark was all set to do some _re_-planting," said Åland.

"Augh!" Sweden exclaimed. "Look at that mess! It'll take an hour to sweep up properly!"

"Easy, sir," Åland said, setting a hand on Sweden's shoulder. "He must have anticipated you'd react this way."

Actually, there were a lot of flower pots around, not just near the floral clock. At a cursory glance they had blended into the cobblestones, but there was no missing them now. Patches of that powdery dirt were everywhere. There was a soft whisking sound, and the group spun about to see Denmark slip out from behind an unused market stall. He held a pair of tongs which were gripping a glowing coal, and he waved with his free hand and made a triumphant smirk just as Sweden realized the spilled "dirt" looked an awful lot like gunpowder...

Denmark dropped the coal.

Networks of fizzing, sparking lines raced through the square as the trails of gunpowder ignited.

The flower pots began exploding with harsh _bangs_.

"Stand your ground!" Sweden barked as the three of them were pelted with clay fragments.

"We should take cover, sir!" Åland said, trying to interpose himself between Sweden and the thickest part of the onslaught.

"All right, but stay together!" said Sweden. "This way! There's a side street!"

Staying together was easier said than done. The bombs were more startling than dangerous—the open tops on the flower pots dispersed much of the force, making the explosions loud but not especially powerful—but there seemed to be no end to them. Denmark had been cunning with how he laid the gunpowder trails and there was no good way to predict which battery would go up next. In very short order, the three of them wound up scattering in different directions and were prevented from reuniting by the chaotic bursts.

Sweden spun around in an attempt to locate his comrades and found himself looking along the length of a blade. "Let's dance," said Denmark in that cheeky tone that he hated _so much_. And then the insufferable bastard _waited_ the few seconds it took Sweden to draw before making his first lunge. They went at it, with the crack of detonating pottery serving as a counterpoint to the clash of metal on metal.

Poetic, isn't it? There should have been music. Something lively and orchestral, with a brass fanfare as the main theme so people could hum it as they left the cinema.

Meanwhile, Åland had given up on finding Sweden or Finland for the time being. The only practical thing to do was find cover until the explosions died down. He was inching along, ears covered, scuffing out any unburned trails he came across, when someone grabbed him and dragged him into a nook between two buildings.

It was Norway, and as soon as the two of them were out of sight of the tumult in the square, he stepped back a pace and held up his hands in a gesture of peace. But Åland kept a hand near his sword hilt anyway—Norway was standing between him and the exit.

"What do _you_ want?" he snarled, pitching his voice low.

"Just to talk," said Norway.

"Why should I trust anything you have to say? You're Denmark's man!"

"I won't deny that. But that doesn't mean I agree with everything he does. And this maneuver doesn't sit right with me."

"I can see why. I'd be embarrassed too, if Sweden went to the trouble of setting up this many bombs and didn't even manage to hurt any of you."

"It's not that. The point of this wasn't to do any damage. It's...look, we know how you feel about Sweden."

Åland narrowed his eyes and prepared to draw.

"Will you calm the hell down?" said Norway. "I swear, you Finns and your tempers..."

"How I feel about Sweden," Åland said through clenched teeth, "is _none_ of your business."

"You're right," said Norway. "It _is_ none of our business. But Denmark doesn't see it that way. He wants to use it against you. The entire purpose of this exercise is to see what you two do in a crisis so he knows exactly how to do that. But I don't think it's right. So I wanted to warn you."

"Why do you care if it's right or not if it helps your side win?"

"Honestly? I hate that they fight so much. They used to both be my friends. Every time they go to war, I hope it will be the _last_ time. But the treaties never stick, and I bet a boatload of fish it's because of shitty tactics like this, just driving the wedge in harder."

"Sweden and Denmark have always fought."

"But not like this. Back when we were Vikings, they'd beat on each other until someone cried uncle, have a hearty handshake, and sit down together in the mead-hall afterward. It was the rest of the world that had to be afraid of us. I'm making an appeal here, Åland. Talk to Sweden, and I'll talk to Denmark, and maybe we can resolve this without so many hurt feelings and they can start mending fences."

Åland maintained his stance for another moment before relaxing. "All right. Do you have any ideas?"

Norway relaxed too. "I was hoping you—" And that was as far as he got, because in the blink of an eye, Åland swept an unexploded flower pot off a nearby windowsill and whipped it into Norway's jaw in a shower of soil and petunias. The big man went over like a felled tree.

"How stupid do you think I am?" Åland muttered.

The explosions from the square were finally starting to die down. With impeccable timing, Finland arrived at the nook. His eyebrows shot up into his hat.

"Help me carry him," said Åland. "I've got an idea and I just hope Sweden goes for it."

It must have been a day for great timing all around, because at that very moment, Denmark was remarking to Sweden between thrusts and parries, "You know, we've been alone together for a while now. Where's your boy toy?"

Sweden refused to rise to the taunt. "I don't know...where's yours?"

"_We're both right here!_" came the declaration from the far end of the square...which happened to be where Sweden's party had come in. The two combatants whirled about to see Åland and Finland supporting a semi-conscious Norway between them.

"Norway..." Denmark whispered. His expression turned savage. "_Let him go!_"

"Not likely!" Åland replied. "Come on, sir! I'll explain back at camp!"

Sweden held himself back from smacking his own forehead. Not in front of Denmark, he wouldn't. "Thank you for the dance," he said, sarcasm burning like acid. "I had a lovely time." He lashed out once with his sword, and Denmark went reeling back, clapping a hand to the brand-new cut on his cheek. Sweden turned and followed his party as they retreated with their prisoner—a prisoner he had explicitly told them _not_ to capture.

He grumbled under his breath about that, but he had to admit...Denmark's anguished cry of "NOORRRRWAAAAAYYYYYYY!" was the music that had been missing.

To Be Continued...


	4. Chapter 4

They put Norway in leg irons—he knew the drill and grumbled, but didn't fight—and gave him some bread and salted herring and a cold compress for his aching jaw. "How do you feel?" asked Sweden after a while.

"Lucky to still have all my teeth," Norway mumbled. "No wonder Denmark came crawling back to our camp the other day. He hits _hard_." He indicated Åland.

"Yes, he does," Sweden said. "And on that subject...Åland?"

"Sir?"

"Mind explaining yourself? As you might recall, I said it would be a _bad_ idea to capture Norway. If I know Denmark—and I do—he's off to have a good cry, clean up his face, and then show up here, possibly with a cannon or something equally drastic. What shall we tell him?"

"Here's the thing, sir," Åland said. "You said it would be a bad idea to _threaten_ Norway. But maybe we don't have to. We can just...hold onto him until Denmark agrees to call off the invasion and promises not to do it again. I know it's not as good as getting Norway for your own, but I figured it was the best way to settle things _now_, while we still have some windows left."

Sweden chewed on his thumbnail for a bit. "You really should have consulted with me first, you know."

"Sorry, sir. I saw an opportunity and I took it," Åland said, cheeks reddening slightly.

"I suppose I can't fault you for that, but still. It's not what I've come to expect from you, Åland. You've always gone above and beyond when it came to following orders, but you waited for the orders. Why the sudden change?"

"I must have thought you'd be pleased, sir." The flush was spreading.

"You took a chance that _might_ prove beneficial—or might yet cause us a lot of trouble—to impress me? Is that what I'm hearing? _Why?_"

Norway made a loud groan from his chair. "I don't believe this. Clean your glasses, Sweden, because you cannot possibly be this blind."

"...I beg your pardon?" said Sweden, while Åland developed a look of alarm.

"Don't you get it? The extreme loyalty, the work ethic, and now this? _He's in love with you._"

Silence fell over the camp. Sweden slowly turned just enough to give Norway a serious case of side-eye, but he had no reason to suspect any untruth on the prisoner's part.

He turned back to Åland, who was red from crown to collar by this point and looking fixedly at his shoes. "Is this true?" But the other's expression said it all. Next Sweden addressed Finland. "Did _you_ know about this?" Finland only shrugged, which could have meant almost anything.

Sweden paced the length of the prison tent several times, mulling things over. "Finland, guard the prisoner. Åland, come with me," he said at last. Åland followed him out of the tent without a qualm, though he was still staring at his feet and had stuffed his hands in his pockets to boot. Once they were out of earshot of the tent, Sweden stopped.

"So," he said. "I guess we have a lot to talk about."

"I'm not sure what there is to say, sir. I've admired you for a long time. I never intended for you to find out."

"Why on Earth not? Not ashamed, are you?"

"No, sir...it just seemed improper. You're...a magnificent empire, and I'm just one of your second-rate territories. You're out of my league, and I didn't want to make things awkward."

"Well, they're certainly awkward at the moment," said Sweden. He exhaled hard. "Not to mention the irony of you working so hard for my success against Denmark, and all the while sabotaging _yourself_ with baseless assumptions."

"Sir?" Åland said, raising his head for the first time since leaving the prison tent.

"You may be one of my territories, but I wouldn't say you're second-rate. You haven't disappointed me once since I made you my aide. That's why I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt on this Norway thing." He took a deep breath and then took the plunge. "And that's why I'm willing to give us a chance."

Åland staggered back a few steps, breath hitching. The look of frantic longing on his face was frankly embarrassing.

"Hey now, hold your horses," said Sweden. "I don't want to rush anything. Remember the war that's going on? Let's get that sorted out first and then see how we feel. For now..." He crossed the narrow gulf between them, took Åland by the shoulders, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. They were almost exactly the same height.

Åland went so still and blank for a moment that Sweden thought he was going to pass out. In the next moment, when animation returned to him, he seemed to transform. It was as if all his rough edges smoothed out, hard angles replaced with soft curves...but it was odd. In any one instant, he was the same as ever, plain-faced and gimlet-eyed. It was in the flow from one instant to the next that the change was visible.

It made Sweden feel confident about his decision to give it a shot.

But in the meantime, there were other, more literal shots to worry about. Like the one that suddenly sounded from near the entrance to the camp, followed by unintelligible shouting. Åland snapped back to his customary look of fierceness.

"Denmark?" he guessed.

"I told you so," said Sweden.

"Go start drafting a treaty," said Åland. "I'll stall him."

Sweden nodded. "Be careful. He's probably drunk."

"All the better. It'll make him clumsier."

They joined hands for a second, in an almost brotherly fashion that was anticlimactic after the previous events. Then they separated, each rushing off to his task.

Sweden was halfway to his tent before he realized that Åland had given _him_ the task. And without calling him "sir."

He decided to let it slide. There were more important things to tackle at the moment.

* * *

Åland put on his game face and strode up to the camp entrance. Sure enough, it was Denmark, and sure enough, he was drunk, or so besotted with rage that it made no practical difference. Åland watched him make several unsuccessful attempts at reloading his musket before he cleared his throat and said "Can I help you?"

Denmark dropped his ramrod in surprise. "_You!_" he growled. The brand-new cut on his face had scabbed over nicely. He was going to have a beauty of a dueling scar, at least until it faded.

"Very good, that was correct usage of the second-person pronoun," said Åland.

"Don't you patronize _me_, you...you...just don't! Give me back my Norway or I'll blast you into six and a half thousand pieces!"

Åland raised an eyebrow and lowered it again. "I mean it!" Denmark said, taking a swing with the unloaded musket. Åland deftly dodged it, but the second swing came quicker than he anticipated and he only just managed to catch the still-warm muzzle of the gun on his forearm and deflect it away.

_Don't get cocky,_ he told himself. _He's still dangerous_. "You'll get Norway back," he said, "just as soon as you sign the treaty that Sweden's drawing up as we speak. You'll have to back off and leave us in peace, but that's worth it, right?"

"Treaty?" Denmark repeated dully. He shook his head. "No! He can't do that! Not by himself! We're supposed to sit down and work things out _together_!"

"Are you willing to _do_ that?" said Åland. "I could take you to see him right now, provided you left the gun here."

"Not on your life, buddy-boy. I'm onto a good thing here and I'm not going to throw in the towel just because of one minor setback. I'll get Norway back without some dumb treaty. Pretty hard to hang onto him if...say..._the whole camp was on fire_, wouldn't you say?"

"Do you plan on carrying him? He's chained up. Lightly."

"That was just an example of the sort of thing I might do! I'm happy to drag this war out indefinitely if I have to!"

Åland's vision swam with red. He drove down the urge to go for Denmark's throat right then and there. "Bad move," he said. "I mean to do whatever it takes to _end_ this war. And I do mean _whatever_."

That gave Denmark pause. He shut up for a moment—which was amazing in itself—and leaned forward slightly with an analytical look in his eye.

"Oh," he said after a long moment. "_Oh._" He rocked back on his heels with a smirk. "That cat jumped out of the bag in a hurry, didn't it? I suppose he told you you'd become his one-and-only if you won the war for him? The details don't matter. The precious thing is that you _believed_ him."

Åland scowled but said nothing. Denmark was acting a lot less drunk all of a sudden...

"The thing is, pudding, I've known Sweden _forever_. There's nothing cuddly about him—he's a ruthless, calculating bastard. You're deluding yourself if you think he sees you as anything but a useful tool. You're his shiny new weapon against me and he's just figuring out the most efficient way to use you. Norway's the one he really wants. I'm not falling for his 'treaty' bullshit and neither should you."

Åland shifted his stance, wondering what to do next. He didn't trust Denmark any farther than he could throw a siege engine, but there was something dreadfully, treacherously appealing about what he was saying. Not on a personal level, of course—on that level it was the exact opposite of what Åland wanted to believe—but on a more philosophical level, his Finnish cynicism was waking up and saying _thought so_.

"Everything's coming together, isn't it?" said Denmark. "Sweden says he'll reward you when the war's over? I say, don't give him the chance to disappoint you."

"It's coming together, all right..." said Åland. He acquired a smirk of his own. "Norway said you'd try something like this."

"He _what_? Son of a _bitch_!"

"And you know something?" Åland continued, slowly advancing on Denmark. "It doesn't even matter if you're right. I owe my loyalty to Sweden, whether the feeling is mutual or not. And I'm going to hold you here until he comes out with the treaty and I'm going to watch you sign it and walk away and never come back. And that's the best deal you're getting from me. Try any funny stuff, and you'll have to invent a whole new _language_ just to express the pain I'll put you in. Got it?"

Denmark raised the musket defensively, but before things went any further, Sweden arrived, accompanied by Finland, who was leading Norway in an awkward shuffle, what with the ankle chains.

"Denmark," Sweden said in a tone of forced neutrality.

"Sweden," Denmark said in exactly the same tone.

"Åland, I trust you explained the situation to him?"

"Yes, sir."

Sweden was carrying a sheaf of papers under one arm. He separated one and handed it to Denmark. "Have a read. I kept it simple enough for even _you_ to understand."

"Har-de-har-har," Denmark mumbled as he pored over the document. "This is really it?" he said, turning the paper over several times in case he missed something. "I just...take Norway and leave?"

"I think we should take it," said Norway.

"Hush, you," said Sweden. "That's really it. This war has gotten beyond stupid. I just want to end it already."

"Well...everything seems to be in order..." Denmark said. He sounded faintly disappointed. "Pen?" Sweden handed him the brass-inlaid rosewood fountain pen he always used for treaty signings because it had been a gift from France and therefore made Denmark jealous. "Table?" All five of them looked around in vain for a flat surface. "Um."

"Use Norway's back," Sweden suggested brightly. Norway sighed and turned around. It wasn't the first time this had happened.

"That's me...furniture," said Norway as Denmark and Sweden put their scrawls on two identical copies of the treaty. Sweden directed Finland to unlock the leg irons, which he did a little too quickly. Norway stumbled slightly and quickly crouched so he wouldn't fall and so he could rub his ankles.

Denmark crouched beside him. "You're a lot more than furniture to me," he said with a tenderness that intruded upon the general sarcasm of the meeting.

"Lovely," said Sweden. "Now go be more than furniture in your own home." Denmark shot him a brief glare before standing, helping Norway up, and walking off with the bigger man in tow.

"That went amazingly well," said Åland. "I'm surprised. You should have heard—"

"Wait," Sweden cut in simply. "We're not in the clear yet..." He glowered after Denmark, who walked away and walked away and walked away...and _stopped_... He conferred briefly with Norway, who nodded and kept going while Denmark turned around and whistled piercingly.

"Hey, Sweden!" he crowed, holding up his copy of the treaty. "Here's what I think of your peace accord!" He theatrically ripped it down the middle and let the two halves drift lazily down to the grimy ground.

"Yep. Mm-hm," Sweden said in a resigned tone.

"You really screwed the pooch on this one!" Denmark continued. "I'm gonna tell you the same thing I told your trained monkey—I could keep this up forever! In fact, you've inspired me! Get a good night's sleep, the bunch of you, because tomorrow I'm coming back with torches and cannons and tearing this town apart! I won't leave a single brick stacked on another brick! And then maybe I'll take those bricks and build something new out of them! Sweden, you'll be begging to be my territory by the time—"

Just then, he was bowled over. At some point during his tirade, Åland had launched himself into motion, and Denmark had been so intent on making his speech that he didn't even notice the incoming harbinger of death until his head was being bounced on the ground a few times, followed by an iron grip encasing his neck, cutting off all air.

The other three converged on the scene. Norway arrived first and tried to pry Åland away, only to get an elbow to the solar plexus for his trouble, leaving him, for the moment, almost as breathless as Denmark. By the time Sweden and Finland were close enough to intervene, Denmark was in full animal-panic mode, kicking and thrashing, devoid of any intelligent strategy for escaping since the part of the brain responsible for people thoughts is always the first to go on hiatus in an oxygen shortage.

And then Sweden...didn't intervene. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he should, but he was transfixed. Åland's rage was so terrible and so pure that it was awe-inspiring. It was like something inside him had simply shattered to reveal a white-hot core—he made no sound, and no movement except that required to keep constricting Denmark's windpipe. His face was frozen in a fiery-eyed snarl. Sweden found it both horrifying and fascinating. Even Finland, who was normally never surprised by anything, stood by in rapt amazement as Denmark's struggles weakened and his face turned the color of an underripe plum.

"_Sweden!_" Norway begged as soon as he managed to get enough air to speak properly.

"Right!" Sweden said, snapping back to his senses. He moved in to seize Åland's arm. "Åland! Åland, stop! Stop stop stop stop stop..."

And just like that, Åland returned from whatever realm of madness he had been inhabiting, and relaxed his grip. Denmark gasped hugely and flopped onto his side, coughing, trembling, eyes streaming.

"Jesus Christ, Åland, you could have killed him," said Sweden. "We don't want to kill him, remember?"

"We don't want to kill him," Åland repeated like a slow child absorbing an unfamiliar lesson.

"We can talk about it later," Sweden said gently. He addressed Denmark, who was still panting heavily. "I hope _you'll_ remember this in the future. Don't mess with me or my territories. It won't end well for you."

Denmark tried to speak, coughed a little more, and tried again. "I'll remember," he rasped.

"What will you remember?" Sweden prompted.

"I'll remember the day...you gave up victory in favor of the _rules_."

Suddenly Denmark's hand flicked up. Sweden barely saw a flash of steel, and then Åland made a yelp that ended abruptly and pitched over, clutching at his abdomen. Denmark scrambled away, still a little short of breath but gaining his feet nonetheless. As he fled, he flung away a tiny knife.

Norway flashed Sweden a look that was somewhere between relief and apology before following Denmark.

They didn't get far.

Threaten what someone cares about, and that person _might_ be intimidated...or they might fly off the handle.

Sweden was barely conscious of his own actions—he was snatching up Denmark's discarded empty musket, he was running, he was chanting something, over and over, and then there was no room in the world for anything but himself, the gun, and Denmark's shoulder. And then Denmark's shin. And Denmark's stomach, a few times. He had just enough control of himself to make sure the damage was non-lethal and indeed non-permanent...it was no battle-madness, but it would do for modern times.

When he felt satisfied—when Denmark was reduced to a quivering mass of bruises, maybe even a few hairline fractures—Sweden let himself come down from his manic state. The first thing he became aware of was that he was _still_ chanting, and now he heard the words: "_Fuck the rules._"

The second thing he became aware of was that Norway hadn't moved to stop him.

His surprise must have been evident, because Norway said, "Don't read too much into it," as he hoisted the whimpering Denmark onto his back. "I don't like dirty tricks. From _anyone_."

"I'll contact you tomorrow about a second go at that treaty," said Sweden sourly. "Plan to pack your bags, Norway."

"I don't think so," said Norway curtly. "Denmark's going to need me for a while. I won't be separated from him. You'll have an entirely new war on your hands if you try, and that's a promise. Worry about your own territories."

"Åland!" Sweden gasped, remembering what had sent him into the rage in the first place. He hurried back to his two allies. Åland was lying on his back, eyes closed, brows knitted in concentration. Finland was helping him keep pressure on a wound right around the bottom of his ribcage. Sweden had no way to tell how bad it was. _But I can't lose him now...I only just found him!_

"Finland...?" he asked, putting all his hope and worry and uncertainty into the single word. Finland gave a one-sided shrug, expression completely neutral as it usually was. "Hold on," Sweden said to Åland, at a loss for anything else to say. "That's an order."

Åland opened one eye and managed a weak smile. "Hadn't planned on letting go, sir."

Sweden marginally relaxed. "Good. And...you might as well start calling me Sweden."

Finland rolled his eyes.

* * *

Åland had been lucky. The blade had actually glanced off his lowermost rib, leaving a cut that was long but shallow rather than the serious gut wound Denmark had been going for. They got him stitched up and trusted his robust constitution to take care of the rest.

Denmark, for his part, was in no condition to sign anything for several days. At first Sweden thought Norway was just stalling, but when he finally went down to their camp, new treaty in hand, he found his opposite number genuinely bedridden just from the pain of his contusions.

Sweden didn't feel a bit sorry about this, not even when Norway complained of having to spoon-feed Denmark and listen to him reiterate how sore he was _ad nauseam_.

"He brought this on himself. At every step, he brought it on himself. And you were complicit."

"You know how proud he is," Norway retorted. "And how stubborn. You knew he'd never accept a treaty that he had no hand in writing. You goaded him into doing something stupid so you and your attack dog could hand him a beatdown."

"My 'attack dog' is recovering from a _knife wound_," said Sweden. "We're hardly laughing over here. And I'm not interested in having this argument right now. Here's your copy of the new treaty so you can review it. I'll be back the day after tomorrow. He should at least be able to sit up and hold a pen by then, right?"

"I'll do my best," Norway said quietly, and just for a moment, the mask of hostility slipped.

And so it came to pass that the new treaty was signed. It was not a happy meeting. Åland and Denmark both had difficulty walking, which the former compensated for with a crutch and the latter with a mind-boggling amount of bluster and denial. Norway spent the whole time glowering at Sweden, Sweden glowered at Denmark, Denmark glowered at Åland, Åland glowered right back, and Finland glowered on general principles (which ironically made him seem like the most cheerful one of the bunch, since he was the only one not looking much grouchier than usual). They managed to get through it in large part because the level of uncompromising aggression was roughly on par with the level of movement-preventing injury, and concentrated similarly.

When it was all over, and Sweden was helping Åland climb into their carriage, he glanced around to see Norway starting to dismantle the tents, while Denmark sat nearby on a stool, directing him in an offhand way and swigging the finest pain medication a civilized nation could distill. Sweden allowed himself a little sigh of relief, but that was all it was. Relief. He didn't feel victorious as such; mostly, he was just sick and tired of the whole damn thing.

Then he took his own place in the coach, Åland bumped against him while trying to get comfortable, and he decided he could count a victory after all...

"I hate this," Åland muttered. "I just _know_ Finland is deliberately going to drive over bumps in order to annoy me."

"I'll yell at him if he does," said Sweden. "It's not a long trip."

They sat in silence for a moment until the carriage lurched into motion. "So is this it, then?" said Åland. "Is it really over?"

"It is," said Sweden. "Denmark won't risk another beating like that for some time. I couldn't have done it without you, you know."

"Brilliant insight, sir—Sweden," said Åland, giving Sweden a level look that was both a playful challenge and an intimation of sincerity.

_How does he do that?_ Sweden wondered. He decided to take the reins of the conversation. "All the same, you should know something. You frightened me the other day, when you charged Denmark like that and almost strangled him. It was beastly of you."

"Oh. Um," said Åland, coloring slightly.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

"What _should_ I say for myself? Should I apologize?"

"Not necessarily," said Sweden. "I might _like_ being frightened from time to time. In moderation, of course."

"Of course," said Åland. His blush spread a little, making him look younger and therefore cuter.

Or maybe it was just Sweden's imagination. Maybe his growing affection for his feisty territory was smoothing out his perception, erasing the flaws with the deft stroke of a finger.

Or maybe...he just needed to clean his glasses.

The End (and the beginning)

* * *

_A/N: To read is human; to review, divine. This means you!_


End file.
